I, Angel
by Soo W
Summary: An Angel/Fred story, about the origins of the Order of Aurelius.
1. Default Chapter

I, Angel 1/8

**I don't own any of the characters in this story, and don't profit from writing it. The verses at the beginning of chapters 1-7 are from "I, Claudius" by Robert Graves and no copyright infringement was intended by using them in this story.**

I, Angel (1/8) 

Who groans beneath the Punic Curse  
And strangles in the strings of purse  
Before she mends must sicken worse.

Her living mouth shall breed blue flies  
And maggots creep about her eyes  
No man shall mark the day she dies.  
[translation of Sibylline verse from "I, Claudius" by Robert Graves]

03:00 25 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

The glass doors of The Hyperion swung open and a diminutive figure stepped in. She carried a flashlight, but did not use it at first, picking her way through the room with ease, despite the darkness.

In the hotel's main office, she quickly located the main cache of books and manuscripts, locked in a glass-fronted cupboard. Tucking the flashlight under one arm, she gripped the small padlock that served as security for the library, and twisted it sharply. It fell apart in her fingers, the flimsy metal no match for her strength. She yanked the door open, and then illuminated the cupboard's contents.

Quickly finding what she wanted, she drew two items from the store. The first, a cylindrical, leather-bound tube, might have been used in times gone by to carry a map. The second was a scruffy, insignificant-looking book, bound in black canvas (although half the cover was missing) with yellowing, curled pages.

These she took to a nearby desk. The tube popped open to reveal a parchment scroll, which, when laid out flat, covered less than a quarter of the wooden surface. She scanned it eagerly, and her eyes danced when she found the location of a certain passage.

Next, she thumbed through the pages of the book, and left it open on the desk. From her coat pocket she took a large ring; a carved piece of jade set in silver, and placed it precisely on the book's pages.

Upstairs, the owner of the hotel slumbered and dreamed. In the light of a beautiful morning, a fortified sea port came into his vision. Vast, gleaming walls of marble had been raised to protect the populace from inland marauders. In contrast, a harbour stretched away into the calm, blue waters, welcoming visitors from the sea. Around the port lay acres of green, cultivated land, and in the distance, the arid desert shimmered.

As the sleeper approached the citadel, this beauty was exposed as a sham: the walls were stained with blood and scorched as if some god had succeeded in burning the very stone; the harbour was overgrown with weed and bereft of boats and merchants; the farmlands were abandoned, their grasses had sprouted and remained unharvested, and all was rack and ruin.

Some ancient knowledge, understanding, or inspiration told the sleeper the name of the city.

Angel woke in a sweat and mouthed the word: "Carthage."

He rubbed his eyes and tried to banish the dream. Finding this impossible, and the time close to dawn, he rose and went downstairs to make coffee.

The intruder heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs, and allowed herself a secretive smile. She touched each of the objects she had placed on the desk once more, reverently, and waited for him to find her.

"You're stealing from me now?"

She turned towards him, but said nothing in reply. As he advanced on her, she skirted around the desk, and moved to keep it between them as he looked at the pilfered collection. "What do you want, Darla?"

She said nothing in reply, smiling at him while he cast his eyes over her arrangements. Suddenly, she snatched something from the desk and was gone. 

11:20 25 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

"This was what she was taking?" Wesley screwed his forehead into a concertina.

Angel frowned. "Well, yes. And she actually did get away with something. I think it was a paperweight."

"A real paperweight, or an orb of something-or-other?"

"A genuine paperweight. Maybe she thought it was valuable. But she left this." Angel picked up the heavy silver ring and handed it to Wesley. "What do you think it is?"

Wesley hummed for a moment, and then fished in the desk drawers for a magnifying glass. "I'd say, Roman. Or a very good fake."

"Roman?" 

"This design," Wesley indicated the carved jade, "is very like some imperial seals I've seen in the British Museum. You know, for making an impression in wax, ratifying orders, sealing letters and so on."

Angel took the ring back, and studied it, with a worried look on his face. "Roman."

"Angel? Is something wrong? I mean, I know, we thought she'd gone for good, and now she's back, but..." Wesley sighed, "What I mean to say is... our jobs aren't in danger again, are they? Should I call Cordelia and Gunn and ask them to fly back early?"

The image of the beautiful city rose again in his mind, and this time he could see Darla standing on the battlements, and all around her blood was pouring from the stone.


	2. Chapter 2

I, Angel 2/8 I, Angel (2/8) 

A hundred years of the Punic Curse  
And Rome shall be slave to a hairy man  
A hairy man that is scant of hair.  
Every man's woman and each woman's man.  
The steed that he rides shall have toes for hooves.  
He shall die at the hand of his son, no son  
And not on the field of war.

12:00 25 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles 

Fred wandered into the hotel, looking for any of her Pylea friends for company.

It was now twelve months since she'd arrived back in this dimension; twelve months of insomnia, taco binges, crash diets and mild insanity. But at last she began to feel as if it was all coming right. Yesterday she'd fallen asleep at two in the afternoon and didn't wake until eight this morning. "My head," she reflected, "feels like it's really stuck on, for the first time in forever."

The people who'd saved her from the madness were now her closest friends, and she felt it only right and fair to share her good mood with them.

Voices were coming from the office. She could distinguish Angel's deep tones, and Wesley's clipped English speech, and the background sounds of pages being turned and books slapped onto wooden surfaces. A heavy research session was clearly in progress. 

"Theories of vampirism among the Claudian family are rife. Caligula, Nero, even Tiberius. They've all been accused at one time or another."

"But I dreamt about Carthage, not Rome."

"You see, the Claudians were widely regarded as doomed because they gained from the destruction of Carthage. A barbaric act even by the standards of those times. With Carthage gone, Rome was without a rival for trade and empire. They occupied, or could occupy, everything worth having, and demand tribute from everyone who had anything. Rome became filthy-rich as a result, and there were immense and fundamental changes to their society. The Punic Curse."

"Still, it's the first I've heard about any Roman vampires."

"Well, we can probably discount Julius Caesar. He was murdered in broad daylight by a group of senators, including Brutus, supposedly his illegitimate child. No great mystery, if the historical accounts are true. And, he was a good leader, if a little prone to orgies. No suggestion of vampirism."

Fred walked into the office. "Hi guys."

"Fred," Wesley hugged her and pecked her cheek, "Tell Angel I'm right."

"About what?"

"Oh! I don't know. Just everything."

She smiled at Angel, who raised his eyebrows in mock derision and carried on. "Why would Darla be trying to contact vampires from the ancient world anyway?"

"Who's Darla?"

"His ex." Wesley explained, flippantly.

"Wesley!"

"Well, what would you call her?"

That was a good question and it silenced Angel for a time. He didn't want to answer it at that moment, with Fred standing there, looking openly and curiously at him. She was the only person he was close to, that wasn't aware of his descent into near-madness when Darla was last in town. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as he could. "I know I'm being selfish," he told himself, "but I can't help it. I don't want her to know about the past." At the same time, he felt instinctively that she would probably understand, and sooner forgive him his past than anyone else.

Her pragmatic reaction to seeing his demon emerge in Pylea had created a bond between them. He trusted her not to judge him. Or rather, he would trust her, one day.

Wesley shook his head and turned back to his books. Fred, sensing tension, wandered across to the desk and patted Angel on the shoulder. Then she took up a volume and started to read a random passage.

"rrp ylk frw bgl tmn..."

Angel frowned, "We've no idea what it means. The book was open at that page when I surprised her... Darla, this morning. She was stealing it."

"It's a portal recipe" said Fred, simply.

Wesley gaped, "How do you know?"

"I know a lot about portals."

"Portals to Pylea. Is that what this is? For god's sake, don't read it any more!"

Fred shook her head, "All kinds of portals. I've been studying..." Suddenly, she realised what she was saying, and tried to back-track. "..you know, you're right, it could be anything."

Wesley gave her a stern look. "Fred. Tell me the truth. Have you been studying portals?"

Her face told them all they needed to know.

"I don't believe it!" Angel groaned, "After five years in Pylea? You're looking for more trouble?"

"I just wanted to..."

"It's dangerous, Fred." Wesley wagged a finger at her. "What if you go flying off somewhere again? How would we find you? Or are you hoping to have time to leave a note?"

"...understand what happened last time. So I can stop it happening again." She tapped her finger on the book, "This is not a portal to a different dimension. It's for travelling within our world. Travelling back. In time."

"Well, that makes no difference, I still think it's a bad idea altogether for you... in time?" Wesley's eyebrows went up a full inch. "Where in time?"

Fred shrugged. "It's your standard Martini-type portal. Any time, any place, anywhere. The key is an object created in the right era. If you had a token made at a certain time and did the incantation in a certain way, you could probably travel to any date within a century either side, quite accurately."

Wesley and Angel looked at each other. "The ring..."

"You would end up close to the place where the object was at that time." Fred continued. "If it works. I've read about these time travel portals. They're rare and delicate, not to be used indefinitely. There's a theory... whoever's in charge doesn't like them"

"What do you mean?"

"They - whoever "they" are - don't approve of time travel. Some people believe that higher powers shut them down as soon as they find them. Anyway, what it boils down to is, you could only rely on it for a short period of time. Maybe a few days."

"So," Angel picked up the ring, "If this is Claudian, we could use it to go to the reign of any of the Caesars Wesley mentioned?"

"If they reigned within a hundred years of it being made, yes."

"And we'd end up close to whoever was wearing the ring?"

"That's the idea. But we might not even be able to get the portal to open more than once."

Wesley interrupted, "Why not? We have the recipe. I thought you said a few days grace?"

"It's a recipe, but it's not like baking a cake. The mystical energies involved in time travel are immense. Eventually, even if the higher powers don't shut it down, it gets exhausted, like the Pylea portals did. Then it's gone, and all the chanting in the world won't bring it back until it's recharged. According to what I've read, that takes a few millennia."

Angel turned to Wesley, "I say we go and see what she was up to."

"Angel..." Wesley shook his head, "...you're trying to pick a single moment out of two centuries and get it right. It can't be done. We have to know what... when she was aiming for. And then there's the problem of dates. Do we know the date of any event accurately enough? To the day? I don't think we do."

Fred interrupted cheerfully, "That's not a problem. The portal understands more about time than we do. We could probably say 'take me to 25 December in the year nought' or 'take me to the birth of Jesus Christ' and the portal would understand both requests equally well."

"And," Angel continued, "if she was trying to contact an ancient vampire, and your hunch about the Claudian family is right, we only need find out which Caesar, yes?"

Wesley pursed his lips. "I guess so."

"So, I turn up at the death of each one, and find out which one was turned." Angel tossed the ring to Fred and gave her a brilliant smile. "And then I kill them. And Darla's plan, whatever it was, is dead in the water."


	3. Chapter 3

I, Angel 3/8 I, Angel (3/8) 

The hairy one next to enslave the State   
Shall be son, no son, of this hairy last.  
He shall have hair in a generous mop.  
He shall give Rome marble instead of clay  
And fetter her fast with unseen chains  
And shall die at the hand of his wife, no wife  
To the gain of his son, no son.

14:00 25 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

Wesley paraphrased history for Angel, while Fred set about clearing a space for the portal.

"OK, when Julius Caesar dies there's a power vacuum for a while, and eventually Augustus, his adopted son, emerges as the new leader. But he's generally believed to have been controlled by his second wife, Livia, who allegedly poisoned all her husband's rivals. Apparently he was so in awe of her they never slept together."

"Wesley, stick to the point? I don't need all the details."

A loud thud came from the lobby. Angel frowned, "Fred? You OK out there?"

A muffled "Ye-es" came in reply, and Wesley shook his head at Angel. "Why is she moving the furniture anyway?"

Angel shrugged. "We'd better finish this and give her a hand."

"Yes, well, he dies while on a journey. At a place called Nola, of a stomach complaint. The history books say Livia poisoned him, so her son by her first marriage, Tiberius, could succeed." Wesley snapped the book shut. "That's it then. Either he dies from eating bad Roman food or..." 

"... by becoming food for some bad Roman." Angel replied. "Check."

They joined Fred in the lobby. She came to meet them, perspiring slightly and rubbing her left knee. "It's all prepared. Boy, some of your furniture is *heavy*. Do you have the ring?"

Angel patted the right-hand pocket of his duster and nodded. He turned to Wesley and held out a hand, which Wesley ignored, throwing his arm around the vampire's shoulder instead. "Be careful."

Fred took up the book and fingered the already-tattered edges of the pages. Angel gave her a reassuring smile, and then moved into the clear space at the centre of the room. "I'm ready when you are."

She looked at the book and then at him, and then at the book again. Finally, she stepped quickly over to where he was standing and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. "Good luck."

Before he could say anything, she turned and began to read as she walked away. A creaking, whooshing sound grew in the air as she spoke, and Angel looked around the ceiling for signs that a portal was opening for him. There was nothing to be seen, but the noise continued.

Fred came to the end of her incantation, and turned to see Angel's shocked face as the portal opened directly below him and he fell into the floor.

Silence followed. Fred sat down heavily on a nearby sofa. "I did it!"

Wesley joined her and they sat together, watching the spot on the carpet where Angel had last stood. "So now, we wait. You're sure he'll come back?"

"Oh yes. He says the reversal incantation, and a portal opens back to this time. No problem. He should come back right here, where he left from." She frowned. "I think."

Wesley sighed, and looked at the carpet again. Then, getting up, he offered a hand to Fred. "Let's get some coffee."

Death of Augustus, AD 14  
A Roman villa, near Nola

Something was tickling the back of his neck. Angel wriggled, and this made the tickling a hundred times worse, and also caused his muscles to protest loudly. He groped around to remove whatever it was, and he found himself clutching a handful of straw. 

He was buried in a mound of hay. Its intense grassy smell reminded him of summer, and his life as a young man, early experiences with women, and the sun. Oh my god, the sun!

He opened his eyes, and saw blackness. Stretching his hand upwards, he felt no pain, and no burning, just straw and fresh air. Then something wet landed on his hand and he drew it back to his chest again. 

Cautiously, he pushed downwards with his feet, and found, to his relief, solid ground below. He seemed to be crouched, so he pushed again and slowly stood. As he emerged from the straw, a bemused cow looked him in the eye. He was in a barn of some sort, and the sun was shining brightly outside.

Angel made a slow circuit of the building. It was harder than it looked. Shafts of sunlight leaked in through holes and chinks in the walls, and he had to skirt around them. Occasionally, copper-faced farmers sauntered past, but no-one entered, and eventually Angel spied an impressive stone dwelling, about two hundred and fifty yards from the barn. As the light failed, he crept out and made his way towards the building.

A paved courtyard extended all the way around it, prettily grown with vines and other plants he did not recognise. In the centre of the courtyard, stood a small tree, bearing copious quantities of small pear-like fruit. As Angel approached it, voices drifted from another part of the garden. He quickly dived behind the base of an ornamental fountain, and waited for the owners of the voices to pass.

They spoke a mixture of languages, mainly Latin, which he could understand pretty well, with sudden lapses into another tongue, possibly Greek, which meant nothing to him. He could make out three-quarters of their conversation. 

The speakers were two young women. Some kind of nobility was implied by the formality of their dress, and it was clear from what they said that this was their house, and there was a invalid within.

"Quiet, my dear, we mustn't disturb our guest."

"I begin to wish he would go. There is honour in the visit, but it is unpleasant to care for even a distinguished visitor for such a long time."

"I think the Lady Livia will take care of that."

"How can you say such things! We may be overheard! Have some care..."

They talked for several minutes in Greek, and then continued.

"He never eats anything she prepares now. Have you noticed? Everything from the common table and figs he picks himself from the tree. Mother has given strict instructions that no-one else is to eat them, so there will be enough ripening for him."

The women went inside. Angel began to emerge from his hiding place, when a third woman entered the courtyard. She had a scarf thrown about her head and face, and was carrying a pot with a brush inside. She cast an eye about her, and seeing no-one, approached the tree and began to paint the fruit.


	4. Chapter 4

I, Angel 4/8 I, Angel (4/8) 

The hairy third to enslave the State  
Shall be son, no son, of this hairy last  
He shall be mud mixed well with blood  
A hairy man that is scant of hair  
He shall give Rome victories and defeat  
And die to the gain of his son, no son -   
A pillow shall be his sword.

09:00 27 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

A woman's voice.

"Angel? Can you hear me?"

It felt like someone had dropped a bus on his head. He tried to open his eyes but the light was too bright and his eyelids too heavy. He gave up.

"I don't think he can hear us."

A warm hand touched his forehead and smoothed the hair from his brow. He could smell clean skin, and the faintest aroma of salsa.

"We should let him sleep it off. He needs his rest."

"I'll get back to researching."

"Wesley?"

"Hmmm?"

"Who's Darla?

Angel made the supreme effort and managed to make a gargling sound, open one eye and move his head an inch from the pillow.

"Angel! Wes, he's awake!"

After a few hours Angel was recovered enough to sit and tell them what had happened. Beyond a doubt, Augustus died of poisoning.

"And after he ate the figs he collapsed and never got up again. I watched him for two nights and he never recovered, just slipped away into oblivion."

Wesley consulted his notes. "Great! Now, the next one is..."

Angel gave him a dark look. "I would hardly describe it as, great, Wes."

"No." Wesley coughed, "That wasn't really what I meant."

Angel rubbed his eyes. "I know, sorry. My head feels like hell. Go on."

Wesley continued. "Tiberius. Not one of the most popular emperors. Died at an advanced age after a life of murder and debauchery. Supposedly suffocated while in his deathbed by Caligula, his adopted son."

"Right," Angel dragged himself upright. "Let's do it."

"Angel, you can't!" Fred protested. "You can barely stand up!" She put a hand on his chest and gave him the gentlest of shoves. He fell back onto the sofa. "See? You should sleep some more."

Angel began to argue, but his friends wouldn't hear him. Slowly, his words of protest faded and his eyes closed. Fred lifted his legs onto the sofa and ushered Wesley into the office. Then she came back to watch him while he slept.

21:00 27 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

The lobby is dark and still, and silent; the only noises are my breathing, and Angel moving his limbs in his sleep. Wesley has taken one of the rooms upstairs and gone to catch a few hours himself.

I'm wide awake. I tell myself it's because I slept for so long a few nights ago, but actually, it has more to do with being here, with him. The man, the vampire, who sleeps on the sofa in front of me.

It's come as quite a shock, to find that I seem to have fallen in love with him. I didn't realise I was doing it and now I'm in the middle and I can't tell where or when I began.

I can't pinpoint the time or the place. I never got the chance to reason myself out of it. Maybe it happened when I was insane. Bad... bad... this is so bad.

I ask myself, aloud, "Why would he ever care about me?"

"Good question."

I spin around and face the intruder. A small woman. Beautiful face. Deep pink lips. Blonde hair. Slim, but at the same time, shapely. Fat legs, I think, spitefully. "Darla?"

"Instant recognition! That's... nice. Who're you?"

I back away towards Angel. "A friend."

She smiles. "It's nice to have friends. Not if they die of course. Then it's upsetting."

She must have come for the ring. The ring is in Angel's duster. The duster is on the sofa behind him. I edge around the sofa, my calves brushing the fabric.

"So, he figured it out. He went back."

"Yes." I reach the duster, and delve in the pocket for the ring. "We know what you're up to. And Angel's going to sort it out."

Darla laughs, "I'm sure of it."

I mutter the incantation under my breath. As I feel the ground give way beneath me, I lunge forward and shake Angel awake. He rises, and the last image I carry with me is Darla smiling at him as he rises from the couch.

Death of Tiberius, AD 37  
The Imperial Residence, Rome

Feet, then voluminous robes, followed by dusty faces and raised fists. 

Fred surfaced in the middle of a crowd; a heaving, baying mob. It seemed to move as a single entity, and she was being carried along, held up by the press of bodies on either side, her feet never touching the ground. 

She was facing the wrong way. And dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt advertising the joys of drinking Coca-Cola. Fitting in was not going to be easy.

Fortunately, no-one was paying her any attention whatsoever. Eventually the people entered a large town square. The crowd thinned out and Fred found her feet and, stooping low, made her way to the back. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see a handsome young man with curly blonde hair, standing on an elevated platform at one end of the square. He was speaking to the crowd in an unintelligible language. All eyes were upon him and his words seemed to have a soothing effect on the mob. No-one seemed to notice her as she moved swiftly to the rear.

On the ground at the back of the crowd, lay a woman, face down in the dirt. Her robe was covered in dusty marks. Fred knelt and turned her over, finding her eyes were open and glassy. She was dead, trampled underfoot by the crowd moments before. Fred looked around sheepishly, and then unwrapped the woman gently from her robe. 

"They're gonna cut my hands off for this. Or behead me and throw me down some steps. I can't quite remember which."

But no-one came. She covered herself from head to toe with the robe, and turned to observe the crowd and the speaker again.

He seemed to be relating a story. His hands moved in expressive gestures, and now and again he would walk from point to point, acting out some event for the crowd. They were entirely silent, until the speaker came to the end of his tale and raucous cheering broke out. 

The speaker nodded to the crowd and accepted their adoration. Then he spoke again, indicating the building behind him. The crowd applauded again, and finished by saluting him, fists raised, as he turned and entered the building. The people didn't disperse. They merely melted to the side of the square, sank down on marble walls and under trees, and when these positions were filled, simply sat in the dust.

Clearly, whatever the crowd was in a stew about, it wasn't over yet. Fred picked her way around the edge of the square, and studied the building that had swallowed the speaker. An impressive entrance was guarded by imperial soldiers. A high wall enclosed the building and grounds on three sides. It seemed as if the front door was the only way in. 

"Of course," Fred reflected, "If Angel were here he'd just climb something. Or move so quick those guys wouldn't stand a chance. Or break into Latin and fake his way in." She sighed. Here was a choice: she could either do something reckless and get killed, or go home and have to tell the guys she'd failed. She started up the steps.

As she approached the guards, a woman came out of the entrance and seized her by the arm. 


	5. Chapter 5

I, Angel 5/8 I, Angel (5/8) 

The hairy fourth to enslave the State   
Shall be son, non son, of this hairy last.  
A hairy man that is scant of hair.  
He shall give Rome poisons and blasphemies  
And die from the kick of an aged horse  
That carried him as a child.

18:25 28 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

Fred woke and sat, bolt upright. "Oh! Oh God!"

Then she felt a strong pair of arms close round her, and pull her back into an embrace.

"That was stupid."

Fred sniffed. "She came for the ring. I couldn't think of any other way to get it out of her reach."

"Except throwing yourself through another portal. Some people would call that extreme."

As Fred's senses returned rapidly to normal, she found she was sitting across Angel's lap, with her head resting on his shoulder. They were in his big leather chair in the office. He was running a hand slowly through her hair.

"She's gone?"

"Yes. We had a frank exchange of views. Promise me you won't do it again."

She snuggled against him and took in another gulp of his glorious smell. "Not promising anything of the kind. Not if this is what I get for unauthorised portal travel."

She felt him kiss the top of her head, and then his fingers cupped her chin and brought her face up to his. He touched the end of her nose with his own and whispered, "I don't want to lose you, Fred. Promise me you'll be careful."

Footsteps. Wesley. She sprang away from him like a scalded cat.

"Fred! You're awake! How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Normal, actually. No side effects."

"That's interesting." Wesley peered into her eyes, "Angel's still a bit groggy. I wonder why you weren't affected so much. Anyway.. did you get a result?"

Fred nodded. "I was lucky. I disguised myself a bit too well. They mistook me for a servant and got me carrying things in and out of the sickroom. So I waited until no-one was looking and hid behind a curtain. It was, horrible. He was an old, old man. Smothered, with a pillow, by the younger one. He took such a long time to die."

"The younger one? Noble? Good looking fella? Popular with the crowds?"

"Yes."

Wesley nodded. "Caligula. It had to be."

Angel frowned. "I thought they hated him."

Wesley shook his head. "Only at the end, after he went mad and declared himself a god, murdered most of the nobility, stole their money, wives and land, opened a brothel at the imperial palace with his sisters and brothers as the workers, and generally made a right pest of himself. At the beginning, he was greeted as a saviour. After all, who could be worse than Tiberius?"

"So, I do Caligula next?"

"No."

Fred and Angel looked at Wesley in surprise. "Why not?" Angel asked, "He's one of the more likely candidates, isn't he?"

"I'm going to go."

"Wesley..."

"Angel, you aren't fit. Fred went last time. I've finished researching and now I'd just be sitting here like a lemon. This job doesn't require any strength, it just requires being able to hide, and possibly, kill a vampire before they wake up." He took a stake from his pocket. "Both of which I can do."

Death of Caligula, AD 41  
The Coliseum, Rome

Wesley was lying on a stone surface. Ahead stretched a curved corridor. The solid walls and ceiling were made of the same material, and at intervals sunlight flooded in from left and right, through glassless openings.

He sat up. All around there were the sounds of people, shouting, laughing, generally having a good time. Though the general hubbub, he could make out several languages. Latin, Greek, some African and Asian tongues, a heady and cosmopolitan mixture.

When he stood and peeped through one of the openings, he saw a magnificent theatre. Steps descended below him, curving away to right and left, forming a series of concentric hoops around a sun-soaked dais. A play was in full swing, actors were gambolling around on the dais, and hundreds of people lounged on the stone steps, eating, drinking, and offering helpful hints loudly to the acting company.

Six long spokes radiated out from the stage; along these spokes the steps were narrower and more frequent. Along one of the spokes, a large party was making its way out of the auditorium. At the centre was a richly dressed young man, surrounded by bodyguards. His hair, a mop of curls, still glinted gold in the sunlight, and the crowd shrank away from him as he passed.

The party left the theatre, and walked along the curving corridor above it on their way out. Wesley realised they were coming his way, and hurried away from them, looking for a place to hide. Eventually, close to the exit, he found a recess in the stone, just big enough to allow him in, if he held his breath.

The party came closer. He could make out fragments of conversation.

"I'm going to bathe, then eat. Then we'll look over the new slaves. Cassius, you shall have the pick of them, my old friend, as a recognition of your long and devoted service to me. Why, how long is it since you carried me on your shoulders as a boy?"

"A lifetime, my Lord. Guard! Show yourself there!"

As the footsteps echoed around the corridor, a guard stepped in from the brightness outside. He saluted. "The watchword, Caesar?"

The Emperor's party had reached the door. He was surrounded by them. 

The man referred to as Cassius stepped forward. "The watchword is LIBERTY!" He turned and drew his sword. The golden haired man backed away, but was prevented from escaping by a ring of guards around him. Several members of the party turned on their sandal-clad heels and fled. No-one stepped forward to protect the Emperor. 

The first blow came from Cassius, and cut deep into Caligula's neck. Then several guards hacked at him in their turn: one strike severed his jaw, another was mistimed and the flat of the sword struck his head. He fell to his knees and blows rained down from all sides, until his body lay still on the stone, with weapons protruding at all angles from the abdomen.

Most of the killers backed away, but one stepped forward and dipped his hand into a wound in the dead man's neck. He raised his reddened fingers to the company, then put them to his mouth and licked. He smiled and shouted, "I swore to drink his blood!"

A resounding cheer went up among the guards, and the people in the theatre, realising something was amiss, started to move and shout. A stampede broke out in the auditorium, and the guards, realising they would be overrun in moments, melted away from the body.

Wesley slipped from his hiding place and looked around. The guards were gone, and no-one else was yet in sight. He wrenched one of the swords from the body and swung it above his head, then brought it down in an arc that severed the neck and threw up chips from the stone.


	6. Chapter 6

I, Angel 6/8 I, Angel (6/8) 

The hairy fifth to enslave the State  
To enslave the state, though against his will  
Shall be that idiot whom all despised.  
He shall have hair in a generous mop.  
He shall give Rome water and winter bread.  
And die at the hand of his wife, no wife  
To the gain of his son, no son. 

12:10 29 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

Angel dozed until midday and then rose and went to find Fred. She was in the office, leafing though Wesley's books on vampire lineage.

"Hey! You feelin' better? Want some coffee?"

She got up, and he sat in the space she'd left. He relaxed against the leather, and felt her residual warmth. Closing his eyes, he remembered the weight of her body on his and wondered idly how he was going to engineer some more contact. She reappeared seconds later and he took the cup from her hand. 

"What have you been reading?"

Fred hesitated, and then indicated a book on the desk in front of him. It was opened to a page depicting a family tree, showing all known members of the Order of Aurelius. 

Angel quickly turned his head away, but still his eye took in a group of names close to the bottom of the page: Darla, Angelus, William The Bloody, Drusilla, Penn. "So... now you know."

Fred gave him a guilty look. "I wasn't looking for you."

"But you found me."

"It... doesn't mean anything."

Angel sipped his coffee and made no reply. An invisible iron hand gripped his heart and was slowly squeezing, as if it could somehow be made more lifeless. But he was already dead, and had been for some time. What difference could it make, in the end, if she got to know the details?

Fred insisted, "It doesn't. Not to me."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. The last time she was here, I almost went mad."

"Well," Fred said, "I - I know what that's like."

He watched her for a moment. She couldn't look at him, and the nervous, twitching movements, that he thought had gone for good, seemed to be returning. She ran a hand through her hair and got up as if to leave the room, and then sat down again, fidgeting. He cursed, inwardly, "You're frightening her now. Is that what you want?"

It took him two steps to get to her and no time at all to take her in his arms and steady her frame against him. "Fred... it's OK. I'm not angry. Well, not with you."

She heaved a heavy sigh and hid her face in his chest. Her voice came through, muffled and distraught. "I'm so sorry. You trusted me and I let you down. I shouldn't have tried to find out about Darla. I should have asked you first."

He smiled. "You did ask me. I couldn't tell you. I... I just wanted you to like me for as long as possible."

At that she moved her head from where it was buried and looked up at him. "I do. You're... the best friend I have. You saved me. I think I..."

Her speech faltered and she tried to pull away but he wouldn't let her. He bent down and dropped a gentle kiss on her mouth. "You...?"

Her eyes were closed. "Angel..."

He kissed her again and felt, to his surprise and relief, the sensation of her delicate, unsure, fingertips trace a pattern up his chest and reach to caress the skin at the back of his neck. She was shaking in his arms, but the kiss seemed to soothe her and as they coalesced into one another, he felt the tightening inside his chest melt away. If she could still want him, after what she must have been reading, there must be something here worth trying for. There must be some hope, for him.

Fred relaxed into his arms, and allowed his cool fingers wandering up and down her back to calm her. The kiss was so blissful, so considerate and undemanding, that she forgot to be nervous. She was hopelessly drawn to him, and at the same time in awe of him; she knew she had been tripping over furniture and dropping pencils in his presence for months. But this felt so right. Her natural shyness and awkwardness disappeared, and she reached up to stop him when he would have pulled away, wanting more of this magical and unexpected delight; more of his cool lips and gentle hands.

Eventually, they broke apart, and Angel planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "Better?"

"Hmmm... much better."

"Did you find anything useful?"

Fred pulled away and went back to the desk, and he followed her. "I was trying to figure out why Darla wanted to go back. Finding you was an accident. " She reached over and indicated the top of the page. "Look at the dates."

The tree did what family trees always do, that is, it narrowed towards the top as lines coalesced and branches of the family were swallowed by their parentage. Each name was annotated with a date in brackets. As Angel's eye travelled up the page, the names became unfamiliar to him, and eventually, they disappeared altogether. Blank spaces, with approximate dates, took the place of the certainties of later years, and the root of the tree itself was nameless.

"It's blank."

Fred nodded. "I checked the footnotes. The author left a blank space where he was sure a member of the order existed, but didn't know their identity. The name of the vampire who founded the order isn't known, but the approximate date of his turning is there. Do you see?"

"70 AD..."

"Angel, if the author was right, the Order of Aurelius was founded at the end of the Claudian dynasty. Darla may have been trying to contact the head of the family."

Soft noises in the lobby alerted them to Wesley's return. They rushed out, to find him trapped under a coffee table.

"Hey Wes, you need a hand?"

Angel lifted the table and Fred helped Wesley to his feet. He removed his glasses and spluttered, "Who put that there?"

"It's always been there, Wes. You came back in a slightly different location, that's all."

Fred smiled apologetically at him. "Portal travel... it's not a precise art."

"Well, I'll just be thankful I didn't arrive back under the photocopier, then."

Fred looked around the lobby. "It's getting fuzzy. Maybe we're going to lose it. Perhaps we should clear some more furniture for the next one?"

"Let's think about the next one after we've dealt with this one." Angel looked hopefully at Wesley. "Caligula? Big vampire goings on?"

Wesley shook his head. "No. Not exactly a natural death, but no vampires. I made sure of it. So, next up is Claudius. Big softie of the Claudian dynasty. Supposedly poisoned by his wife with a mushroom after a blameless life spent writing history and conquering Britain. Our road system would be nothing without him. Who's up for it?"

Angel nodded at Fred. "We may have a shortcut. Fred? Tell him."

They spent the next few hours talking about Darla and the Order. Gradually, Angel learnt to stop flinching every time her name was mentioned in front of Fred, and slowly, he began to contribute things to the conversation. Recollections he thought he'd put aside forever; facts he'd never wanted either of them to know.

As he bared more and still more of his fragile soul to both of them, Fred crept imperceptibly closer to him. Finally, as he described Darla's second turning for her benefit, Fred slipped into his arms and he sank his face into her neck. 

Wesley came to a sudden decision. "Fred, I think you're probably right. We're short of time and we need to take a chance and move onto Nero. I'll catch up on my research and we'll reconvene here in... shall we say 3 hours time?"

No reply came, and Wesley noticed that Angel was kissing Fred's face, moving from chin to forehead, from cheek to cheek and back again. She was holding him gently and murmuring soft, comforting phrases. Wesley smiled indulgently, and said, under his breath, "I may as well be talking to myself, as usual!" Then he crept out quietly, and left them to each other's company.


	7. Chapter 7

I, Angel 7/8 I, Angel (7/8) 

The hairy sixth to enslave the State  
Shall be son, no son, of this hairy last.  
He shall give Rome fiddlers and fear and fire.  
His hand shall be red with a parent's blood.  
No hairy seventh to him succeeds  
And blood shall gush from his tomb.  


22:55 29 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles

"Nero." Wesley took on the appearance of a general briefing his officers. He gripped one hand in the other behind his back and snapped his pointer against his calf muscles. "What do we actually know about him?"

Fred raised a hand. "He fiddled while Rome burned."

"According to tradition, yes. There are also rumours of incest, murder and many and varied references to a dissolute nature. And he was the last of his line." 

Angel sighed. "Add a covered sedan chair and it all spells vampire to me. We're running out of time. I should go." 

"The official story is that he was run through by a servant, at his own request, after the Senate had declared him a public enemy." Wesley continued as Angel got up and headed for the lobby. "Angel, be careful. I know you think you've seen everything, but they were turbulent times."

"Maybe we should go with him." Fred bit her lip nervously.

"There's only one token." Angel turned and gave them both a brilliant smile. "I'll be fine. Back before you know it."

The portal opened beneath his feet again, and the lobby fell silent.

Death of Nero, 68 AD  
The Imperial Residence, Rome 

The room is opulently furnished. Tapers burn extravagantly on all sides; silk drapings cover every conceivable wall space; intricate wooden screens divide the room into segments, and everywhere polished marbles of all conceivable hues contain reflections of the splendour. 

I pick myself up and check for sunlight and injuries. It's dark. The room seems to be empty, but I can sense a presence. A familiar essence somewhere nearby. As I try to decipher its meaning, the door flies open and a young man hurries in, followed by his own billowing robes and an athletic male servant.

"Have a mind to your weapon, Sulla. The time is near."

The servant puts a hand to his belt, where a long sword is sheathed. The young man paces up and down, muttering in Latin, "Where is she, where is she?"

I peep out from my hiding place behind a screen. The presence is drawing nearer. 

"The Sybil is close!" the servant whispers "Here she comes, Lord! "

Nero raises his hand until slow and deliberate footsteps echo in the corridor. As the door swings open again, he cries "Now!"

The blade is drawn in a flashing arch, and pauses, frozen momentarily in the air before the downswing. I can't watch it in cold blood. Murder, just as the history books describe. I can't allow it just to happen in front of me. I growl and leap forward from my hiding place, throwing myself between the servant and the master.

"There he is! STRIKE!"

The servant swings at me, slashing through my shirt and opening a wound from my chest to my waist. As I drop to the floor, I see Nero scurry behind the man. Into his protective circle. The pain.

The pain is everything. A pool of my own blood forms on the floor, and I realise I am on my knees, looking down into it, seeing a reflection of the ceiling. A blow with that weapon to the neck would sever my head from my body. I must get up and fight or flee. But the pain.

As I lurch to my feet and my muscles flex, the extremities of the wound give and tear. The gash extends across the skin of my shoulder. I hear myself bellow in agony, and when the sound dies away, I know from the horrified faces of the two men before me that I have changed.

"Again."

A third voice. A familiar voice.

Nero pushes the servant from behind, and he grips his sword and advances a shaky step towards me. I raise my hands in defence. "Stop! I'm not here to hurt you."

The sword glints again, and slices into my left hand, severing the knuckle between my third and fourth finger cleanly, and stopping with a jar at the wrist. 

"Again."

Another blow. I hardly know where it lands. The pain: as sharp as a point. The fury: as clean as a blade. 

"Sulla! It's enough! Leave us!"

It only occurs to me much later that the servant made no wounds that could have killed me. He was skilled and strong, and should have done it with a single blow. But I'm beyond rationality now.

Writers never get it right. There is no red mist descending, no loss of control, no period of absence where memory fails. It is clarity, always. For all the hundreds of people I've killed, I can remember. Every moment. Every drop of blood. Every single one.

The servant is gone before I can reach him, but the master remains and I make him pay for his orders. The blood is laced with fear, and in my present state of incandescent rage, he is a moment's work.

A laugh. Like glass shattering. So familiar.

My latest victim drops to his knees. As he descends, he takes my hand in both his, and kisses me, like a mafia hireling greeting his Don. He draws my blood into him briefly, before collapsing to the sullied surface of the marble floor.

"Welcome to your destiny, Angel."

I wrench my eyes away from the corpse in front of me. Darla stands nearby, watching me with mixed triumph and amusement. Her presence is like water dousing the flames. I try to speak and the blood froths and gargles in my throat. I swallow and manage to croak, "Destiny?"

"The founder of our Order. I've been meaning to tell you since The Master told me, but it never seemed to be the right time."

I understand her words, but her meaning is still opaque.

"When you were Angelus, you were conceited enough already. When you were cursed, well, what would have been the point? You would have run yourself though with a telegraph pole sooner than come here with me."

"This was... fated?" As I speak the word a fine mist of blood is ejected from my mouth. Disgust surfaces at last, and I wipe the gore from my lips with the back of my good hand. Disgust is followed, as always, by remorse. Remorse by guilt; guilt by fear.

"Foretold, my sweet. In that scroll your human friends are so fond of quoting."

"The Scroll of Aberjin."

Used to bring her back. To be made again. All fated.

"My shanshu."

She laughs again and the noise grates on my senses. "You poor dumb creature. You believed that? Why would The Powers reward you for making amends? They think you owe a debt to mankind. In their view, you're just running to stand still. Reward!"

She spits the word out as if it pained her to say it.

"This is shanshu, Angel. Birth and death. The birth of your Order, foreshadowing your death, leading inexorably to the birth of your Order again. Forever, in an eternal loop."

I look around me. The sword is lying by the door, where the servant cast it away.

"Why couldn't you do it? You had the token. Didn't you want... the honour?" (Couldn't you have spared me this?)

"Because it's you. It's always you. Without your blood the Order of Aurelius fades and dies in a few short years. With your blood, we outlast everything. The Roman Empire. Faith in God. The Apocalypse. Everything."

I stagger towards the door. I can put a stop to this now, if I can just get to the sword.

"I told you once before. Your evil is innate. You've never been just another vampire, Angel."

If I can stop him waking, it all ends here.

I hear Darla. She is chanting mirthfully; stumbling over the words as giggles break from her, one after the other. As I stretch my hand towards the hilt the ground opens beneath me, and I am sucked back to the present day.


	8. Chapter 8

I, Angel 8/8 I, Angel (8/8) 

Down to the last  
I will prophesy all in turn  
Such things as were before  
As are and as will come  
Upon the world through the impiety of men

05:00 30 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles 

I've never seen him injured so badly. He arrived back several hours ago, just a bloody mess on the lobby carpet. At first I thought something had gone badly wrong with the portal and he'd been turned inside out.

Even with several hours of vampire healing under his belt, he still looks a mess.

We've cleaned the wounds (not that antisepsis means a lot where vampires are concerned) and bandaged him up as best we can. There's going to be scarring. Fred and I debated taking him to hospital to get them to do a better job, but we decided we couldn't risk it; not with all that blood. 

I suppose it gave us something to do. Now we're at a loss. Angel's in his bed. He doesn't seem to be unconscious, but he just stares straight ahead and won't speak to us, like he's had some sort of debilitating shock. Fred's up there with him.

Poor girl. I've never seen anyone so distraught. I don't think she's stopped crying yet.

Of course, we still don't know what happened. But, I've been thinking about it. If Angel was able to stop the Order being founded, why would he still exist? Should he even be here? 

And if Angel doesn't exist, why should Fred be here? She should be trapped in Pylea, still.

If it comes to that, why would I be here? If it hadn't been for the Angel situation, I don't believe Giles would have been relieved of his command. Besides, he's saved my life more times than I can count.

All things considered, I find I'm glad he's back. Order or no Order.

14:00 30 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles 

"Fred?"

"Angel? Are you awake? Thank God. Let me go and fetch Wes..."

"No, don't do that yet. Come here."

I step smartly over to the bed and sit down carefully on the edge. A heavily bandaged hand gropes for mine, and I take it in both my own.

"Does it... does it hurt?"

"No. Not any more. Fred, will you take the bandage off?"

"I don't think I should..."

"Please."

So I unpin the edge of the bandage and slowly begin to unwind it from his hand. I glance occasionally at his face, for any sign of pain, but there seems to be none. As his skin comes gradually into view, I can see that it is already knitted. A livid red scar shows where the injury was, but his hand is whole again.

I scoot the bandages away, and come back. He's sitting up.

"And these."

The wound to his abdomen is in a similar condition. I lay a hand gently on the skin, and follow the scar from top to bottom.

"I don't believe it."

He doesn't answer, but pulls me down onto the bed and begins to kiss me, gently. I'm so relieved I think I laugh, and then the feel of his lips and sure touch of his hands takes over. The kiss becomes deeper, and more urgent, and he strokes me from shoulder to thigh, pressing my body into him, lifting my leg to rest on his hip.

He caresses me until I'm breathless and mute with longing for him, then he pulls away and rolls over "Fred..."

"Angel, please, don't stop."

"I can't. I don't deserve... I need to tell you what happened."

"No you don't. You needn't. Was it... bad?"

"It was unforgivable."

"Nothing is unforgivable."

He gives me a wild, lost look. I turn him onto his side and creep around to lie behind him; passing one arm around his chest and using the other to support my head. "Go to sleep..."

"I don't think I can."

"You can. I'll be here."

I watch over him as he slumbers, disturbed, frequently wakeful, and dreaming some kind of awful dream, into the afternoon and evening. Then, exhausted, I curl up beside him and rest.

04:30 31 May 2002  
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles 

She's asleep. I stand on the balcony and I can see her through a gap in the drapes.

She fell asleep, at last, and I went back to the lobby, to try the portal again. But I knew before I started the incantation that it was hopeless. Darla is nothing if not thorough.

I can't bear it. I don't know if I can carry the blame for her crimes, and The Master's, as well as Spike's and Drusilla's, and all the rest, as well as my own. I close my eyes and the family tree seems to stretch out in front of me, like a roll call of all mankind.

Fred and Wes tried to talk to me but their words are meaningless. 

"Nothing is unforgivable."

"If you could just tell us about it, everything would seem better."

"We don't care what happened, Angel. Just that you're all right."

Be with us, share, and heal. How very twenty-first century.

But, I know I'll never be able to tell them. 

I want to believe that nothing I've done in the past matters to them. They tell me so, not in words, but in the way the act around me, their trust in me. The way he'll turn away from me, without the hair standing up on the back of his neck. The way she'll touch me and not flinch when my skin feels cold. They constantly invite me in, and take the risk in their stride.

But, deep down, I know it's not trust, not really the absence of fear. I know how they think, how they rationalise. He sees me as a victim. An unfortunate lad that chased a bit of skirt and got more than he bargained for, and now deserves an even break. "He made a mistake," I can almost hear Wesley say it, "And now he's trying to make up for it." To make amends. As if murder and worse things can be wiped away by enough Hail Mary's and Acts of Contrition.

I think Fred sees it differently, and I'm almost tempted to confide in her. She sees me as simply a hero. Her saviour. Well, maybe I am, but saving one soul can't make up for all those I've condemned. She doesn't know that what happened then can happen again. Past performance is not necessarily a guide to the future. The value of your shares may go down as well as up.

How can I tell them? That my latest victim turns out to be my most significant? That my most ancient ancestor is also my progeny? That everything the Order of Aurelius ever did can be laid at my door? That I am the single and singular cause of my own downfall?

I'm afraid to see the look in their eyes.

Strong is fighting, someone told me once. It's hard, and it's painful, and it's every day. It's what we have to do. Then the choices got too hard for her as well, the pain got too much and the thought of day-to-day living was suddenly impossible. I understand how she felt.

The Romans had an honourable way of dealing with abject failure.

I'm waiting for the sun to rise.

THE END


End file.
